


Into the Hills

by claudia603



Series: The Citadel [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Domestic, Interspecies, M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-17
Updated: 2010-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 00:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Citadel Universe: Frodo delivers a message and faces danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Hills

**Author's Note:**

> The non-con warning is non-rape, but I thought I'd be safe and include it anyway.
> 
> This story takes place in the same universe as The Citadel. In it, Frodo wakes in a strange village and befriends a Ranger from Ithilien named Faramir (if you've not read the original story and don't want to bother, all you need know is that Frodo, Halbarad, Aragorn, and Faramir live together in a lodge in a mysterious village with vague memories of dark paths in another time and place). While this story might wind in and out of the reality of the original story, it has its own plane of existence. Such is the nature of such an odd place.

The rain battered the roof of the tiny cottage like the drumbeats of wild folk caught up in the frenzy of coming war. Gusts of wind flung bare branches into the windows, rattling and scratching. Faramir stirred the flickering fire in the hearth, shivering. The wind whistled through the cracks of the lodge, and the fire would flicker down to almost nothing, sometimes nearly blowing out altogether. It was a foul night to be sure, and especially for anyone who had to be out in it.

 

Halbarad had the misfortune of overnight duty in this ghastly tempest. Faramir watched as he pulled on his worn boots one at a time, his face etched with dread. Strider had made it home just a few hours earlier and had fallen into a deep slumber.

 

Faramir settled on the stool before the hearth, his stomach turning with unease. He uncorked the oil he used to polish his sword and readied the tattered cloth. He poured the oil into the cloth until it was soaked through. He glanced out the window. He could see nothing beyond the gate but the fog of heavy, drenching rain and occasional forks of lightning.

 

"Frodo should have been home by now."

 

Halbarad put his cloak on, yanking his hood over his face. "Do you think there is cause for concern?"

 

Faramir rubbed the cloth up and down the sword with tense vigor, frowning. He could not rid his gut of this cold heaviness, like something was dreadfully wrong. "I do not know. Sometimes Fomhal sends him with messages up into the hills. Those trails are perilous even in clear, dry weather. If he spills or the trail gives way…" The thought was too dreadful to contemplate further.

 

_He's so dear to me, although he knows it not._

 

His life had overturned the day the halfling with the bright eyes and clumsy, hairy feet (_and they make no noise, none at all_, he thought again with wonder) arrived at their lodge. The world had spun into starlight and color from the moment he had met his gaze. Frodo's laughter, which Faramir rarely heard anymore, was maddeningly lyrical and caused always a warm stirring in his leggings. Although now, Faramir reluctantly admitted, when he entered the room, Frodo's laughter often stopped.

 

Faramir sabotaged it himself – he was unpleasant and rough with Frodo unnecessarily. He spoke ill of him, scorned him, and worse than that, he took satisfaction in seeing Frodo wounded by his words. But he would take it all back now. He saw ever the bright trust in Frodo's eyes when he looked at Strider, jested with him, and now Faramir wanted this, too. But life had taught Faramir that love was pain. Everyone he had given fully of his love either scorned him (oh, his father knew well the weaknesses of his heart and knew just where to claw when necessary) or was destined for an early death. So Faramir had shoved Frodo away from him when all he truly wanted was to crush Frodo to him, to run his fingers through his silky curls, to kiss his soft skin, to claim him, and to never, ever share that lyrical laughter with anyone else.

 

 

Now Frodo was gone, possibly in danger, caught in the furious wind and rain. Faramir's stomach shivered and turned cold. After Halbarad left, he, too, would brave the storm to hunt for Frodo, even if his pride later suffered for it.

 

The kitchen was quiet and dark, and Faramir's heart ached for Frodo's foolish singing, for his banging of pots and pans together in a flurry of irritating cooking.

 

"I shall make my way up that trail tonight," Halbarad said. "But it is more likely that he took shelter from the storm. Fear not, Faramir. I am sure he is safe."

 

 

***

 

 

Fomhal stalked about the room, his shoulders hunched with empty rage directed at nobody and everyone. Frodo felt jumpy and uneasy around him. He recently saw just how easily Fomhal's fist had cracked against Arkin's jaw.

 

Fomhal turned his foul mood toward Frodo. "Get over here and listen to me, runt. I've a message for you." Frodo obeyed, swallowing against the sting of Fomhal's rudeness. He hoped that the message need not be delivered far, because the sky was dark and ominous and promised a frightful storm. Frodo wanted only to return home and settle into his bed with a good book. "This message is really important. I'd have sent Arkin 'cause he knows the area up in the hills a lot better, but the fool already went home. You're going to have to ride up into the hills. Do you think you can handle this?"

 

Frodo's heart sank when Fomhal mentioned "the hills," but he dared not say anything. Fomhal's eyes glinted with the threat that Frodo best understand and understand well his duties.

 

Frodo nodded, his heart sinking down to his hairy toes. Riding into the hills was no fun even on a bright, pleasant day. He always returned home sore and tense. The trails were narrow and they wound along sharp cliffs, and in some places were so narrow that making a mistake could cost him his life.

 

Frodo mounted his pony, Prim, the message safely in his pocket, and he set off. The wind rattled the branches of the trees, sending a blizzard of dead leaves flying every which way. A bone-chilling drizzle misted the air. Prim swished her tail and grunted mournfully as if to beg Frodo not to go anywhere but home.

 

"I know," Frodo said, patting her head. "I'd much rather go home, too. But we must go on." He lifted his eyes to the darkness.

 

He rode past the healing cottage, and he waved when he saw Bereg the healer sitting outside on the front stoop.

 

"Anything for me today?" Bereg asked, standing to greet him. He looked haggard, his skin leathery with age and care, and Frodo always imagined that he must have been a fierce and frightening Ranger in his younger days.

 

"I'm afraid not." Frodo smiled. "Alas, I wish it were as easy as delivering a message to you, but I must go into the hills. At this rate, I'll not make it home until supper. If then."

 

"Oh." Bereg looked into the horizon with a worried frown. "It looks like a hard rain is coming. Have a care on those trails up the hills. The hard rain can make them especially unstable."

 

Frodo rode into a horizon that grew ever darker. Bulbous clouds, gray and churning, filled the horizon. The drizzle turned into a steady rain that began to whip in various directions. Frodo pulled the hood of his cloak further over his head.

 

As he met the trail that climbed the hills, it did indeed become treacherous, and poor Prim struggled for foothold with each step. Sometimes they came to sections of the trail that looked like a monster had taken a bite out of it, and Prim had to pick her way on a very narrow, jagged strip that left Frodo white and shaking afterward. Rain lashed into his face in needle-like pellets, taking his breath away and making it difficult to see beyond Prim's head. He clung for dear life, always half expecting the section of the trail that he was on to crumble away, sending him and the pony plummeting down the steep, craggy hill to certain death. If that happened, he wondered how long before anyone at home thought to search for him. Perhaps Strider after a time, but Faramir and Halbarad would likely not notice for a long while.

 

"There's nothing to it but to go on," he said aloud, trying to make himself braver. At any rate, he didn't even think he could safely turn Prim around on this narrow trail. And even if he could, he imagined that it was far better to fall to his death than to return to Fomhal without having delivered the message.

 

At long last he crested the top of the hill, and for a time, he lay on top of Prim, gasping and weak with relief. He did not yet want to contemplate the trip back home, when not only would it be dark, but the trail would have had more of a chance to weaken in the rain.

 

To give himself strength to go on, he thought about Faramir and his golden smile. As of late, he had not often seen that smile, that which had the power to warm him from head to toes. Faramir harbored such scorn for him, and he had no idea what to do to charm him, to change his mind. One thing Bilbo had taught him a long time ago, when Frodo had faced scorn from some of the folk of Hobbiton. There was naught a hobbit could do to change someone's opinions about him.

 

He released a heavy sigh and set off again, and the trail widened into a road that passed between small lodges. Now he could no longer remember the directions that Fomhal had given him, and all these lodges looked alike. He was soaked and so cold he could hardly move his hands, much less keep hold of Prim's reigns.

 

"Little fellow, may I help you?" A kindly voice spoke, practically in Frodo's ear, and he startled. He had not heard the older man approach him.

 

"I am looking for the lodge where Mr. Elm Ernberry lives. I seem to have lost my sense of direction."

 

The man nodded, looking at Frodo in pity. "'tis a sore day to be to be out delivering messages from all the way down there in the valley, and you'll need to have a care going back – your road will be dark and perilous."

 

He directed Frodo to Elm Ernberry's lodge, which of course turned out to be the farthest lodge away. When Frodo at last arrived there, he climbed off Prim and limped to the door. He was already sore from all the riding and especially in his soaked breeches. He knocked on the door. Darkness had fallen, exacerbated by the miserable weather. Frodo shivered, clutching his wet cloak to him. How he longed to be at home, sipping tea, huddled under his blankets with a roaring fire in the hearth, and all this, of course, after a big meal. He wondered if the men at home were playing cards or reading by candlelight. Certainly none of them had cooked anything worthy.

 

A cross older man opened the door. He glared down at Frodo in open contempt. "What do you want?"

 

"A message from down in the val—"

 

The older man snatched the message out of Frodo's hands and then slammed the door in his face without a greeting or a thank you.

 

Frodo limped toward Prim, sniffing in disgust. _I shall never get used to the discourteous nature of Big People._

 

He climbed on Prim again, and thunder rumbled, promising even more rain, and worse -- lightning.

 

"This is splendid, absolutely splendid," Frodo grumbled, rubbing his wet, frigid hands together.

 

He had not journeyed far along the treacherous trail downward when he came to a section completely washed away. There was no way to go forward. Alone, without Prim, perhaps he might have inched along the narrow strip of trail left, or he might have jumped over the gap. But as it was, he could see no way to go forward.

 

"Oh, confound it all!" Frodo cried and dismounted. He was exhausted, hungry, wet, and cold and now there was no way to get home. He kicked the side of the hill in a fury and then sank down onto his bottom, clutching his cloak to him and staring out over the land. He could see the distant flickering lights of the lodges in the valley of The Citadel, so close and yet so far away.

 

_Rope. You'll want it if you haven't got it._ Frodo smiled sadly as a round, friendly-eager face flickered in his memory. His breath caught, and he felt suddenly stronger and braver, better able to face his problem.

 

Rope of course would not do him any good here. All he could do now was to turn around, and even that had its own perils. He climbed to his feet again and pressed his back against the cliff face in grim determination. He pulled Prim's reigns toward him, coaxing the pony to turn. There was hardly any room for her to do so, and Frodo held his breath as she resisted. Frodo kept pulling at the reigns, and finally she began to turn. Suddenly her back legs slipped off the edge sending rocks and mud down the side of the hill. She snorted in panic, and Frodo's heart pounded as he pulled her reigns with all his strength. "No…no, girl…please…you can do it…come now." He would not be able to save her if her weight tilted backwards, over the cliff edge.

 

Sweat trickled down Frodo's face despite the chilly wet, but thankfully Prim regained her balance. Now Frodo and Prim once again faced upward, toward the lodges up the hill. Frodo had no choice but to return there and beg shelter for the night.

 

 

Frodo tied Prim to the first gate he came to, and he stepped up to the door of the lodge and knocked. He would also have to beg food and water for poor Prim as well, preferably a stable.

 

"Who is it?" The voice that growled on the other side sounded hostile. Frodo nearly slunk away into the dark, but he stopped himself. Where would he go? In general it seemed that the people who lived up in these hills were suspicious and unpleasant.

 

"Pardon me—" Frodo began.

 

The voice growled again. "I can't hear you. State your business or feel my blade!"

 

"Frodo!" Frodo cried out, his heart thudding in alarm. "Frodo Baggins!"

 

The door flew open, and Frodo staggered back. A tall man with scraggly dark hair and gray eyes glared down at him, one strong hand over the hilt of his sword. There was something about his lean strength that brought to Frodo's mind Rangers from the North, like Strider and Halbarad. His expression softened as he looked down at Frodo in wonder.

 

Frodo said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but the trail down the mountain has fallen apart and I've no way to get home to the valley. Might I beg shelter of you…and for my pony?" His voice cracked on "pony" and he wondered what he would do if this man sent him away. He would have to keep trying at every lodge. Surely one person on this road would take pity on him.

 

"You're a halfling," the man said in wonder, grasping Frodo's upper arm and dragging him inside to the front hall. He then grasped Frodo's chin, tilting the hobbit's face up so that he could have a good look at him. The warmth from the fireplace felt wonderful, and Frodo shivered, dripping mud and water all over the floor. "I've never seen one of you so close."

 

"I'm sorry," Frodo said, looking at the mess on the floor. "I'm afraid I'm making a mess on your floor."

 

The man knelt in front of him and put his hand on Frodo's shoulder, still studying him from head to toe. "Of course. You must stay here. I shall take your pony into my stable out back. Hang up your cloak and have a seat before the fire."

 

"Thank you so much, good sir." Frodo took off his cloak. Now that he had a place to stay for the night, he felt bone-weary. Yes. Getting home could be far more easily dealt with after the storm passed, in daylight. It was a pity he had no change of clothes. Even sitting on the stool just in front of the fire, he could not stop shivering.

 

At last the man returned.

 

"Thank you so much," Frodo said again, standing.

 

"It's nothing," the man said, gesturing for Frodo to sit again. "I couldn't have you freeze to death out there. It's a nasty storm. And those trails are treacherous under the best of circumstances. My name is Menrahil."

 

"Frodo Baggins at your service," Frodo said, bowing slightly as was courteous.

 

"I've nothing that would fit you," Menrahil said. "But it would be wise to get out of those wet clothes. I fear you'll take ill. Here is a blanket you can wrap yourself up in." He fetched a folded blanket from beside the sofa and tossed it to Frodo, who caught it with an "umph."

 

Frodo felt strange about stepping out of his clothing in front of a stranger. He took off his dripping weskit and laid it flat before the hearth. Still shaking uncontrollably, he unbuttoned his shirt. He was aware of the man still watching him. He glanced at him nervously.

 

"I am sorry," Menrahil said and he turned away. "I shall bring you one of my shirts."

 

Frodo took off his shirt and also laid it flat on the hearth. He draped the blanket around him before taking off his soaked breeches and undergarments. He had to admit that he felt much better now. He shivered, wrapped in the blanket, but this time the shivering felt delicious and healing. He yawned several times. His shoulders still felt tense from the rough riding and apprehension.

 

Menrahil returned with a dry shirt. "It is large, but it will do until your clothes dry properly at least."

 

"Thank you." Frodo smiled at him in utter gratitude.

 

Menrahil asked, "Would you like some wine? I have still cheese and bread from supper tonight."

 

"That sounds wonderful!" Frodo's stomach growled. "I'm afraid I've not had anything to eat all day, with the unexpected traveling and all."

 

Menrahil nodded. "I've some stew left, too. Would you like that?"

 

"Oh, please, good sir. Thank you kindly. I am sorry to be such a bother."

 

Menrahil laughed and ruffled Frodo's hair. "Nay, I do not mind. I could use the company. And a real Halfling right here in my home. We've much to talk about!"

 

While Menrahil was in the kitchen preparing the food, Frodo hastened to change into the large linen shirt that fell to his knees with the ridiculously long sleeves. He rolled those up the best he could and then settled on the sofa and snuggled inside the blanket. He had nearly fallen into a doze when Menrahil returned with the wine and food.

 

Menrahil sat beside him. "As I said before, I've never seen a halfling in so close, although it was at one time my duty to protect your lands. You live down in the valley now?"

 

"Yes. I share a lodge with three Rangers." Frodo swallowed. He hoped Menrahil would not ask him how he had come to be in The Citadel. "Are you then a Ranger?"

 

Menrahil winced a little. Or at least Frodo thought he did. Perhaps instead he blinked or something had caught in his eye or something. But it was a little odd.

 

"Nay, not a Ranger, although I helped them on occasion. It must be strange, sharing space with so many twice your size. And Rangers are strange folk. Does this cause you discomfort? Do you not wish to live with your own kind?"

 

Frodo laughed. Nobody in the Citadel had thus far asked him this or seemed to care. "Well, at first it was just awful," he admitted, and he then found himself speaking freely, of unburdening his heart, about the discomfort and loneliness he felt in a lodge with three Rangers who had little tolerance or patience for the ways of hobbits. As he continued to speak, Menrahil removed the blanket from around Frodo's shoulders and began to massage his shoulders, pressing strong fingers into Frodo's tense muscles, kneading them and relaxing them.

 

"Oh…oh." Frodo smiled, blushing. "It's been a rough day…er…well, a rough few weeks. It's been awhile since I've felt a kind touch. Thank you."

 

"I find that distressing," Menrahil said, continuing to knead Frodo's shoulders. "It sounds to me like you've done all you can do to show friendship to those who, and especially that Faramir, show you little kindness in return. I am sorry for that." He paused. "You know, I would not mind a companion to share this lodge. Might you consider moving into this lodge with me?"

 

Frodo's heart started, and his cheeks heated. A wave of dizziness overcame him and he clutched his head in alarm as the room spun. The wine was far stronger than he was used to. But more likely it was shock that assailed him. What a strange and sudden offer! Why, Menrahil scarcely knew him. And Frodo barely knew him either, but the gentleness in his voice brought tears to Frodo's eyes. It had been so long. Even Strider, the kindest of the Rangers, was more often than not grim and aloof. "Oh, that is so dear of you. But what of my duties?"

 

He did not want to hurt Menrahil's feelings, but such a sudden and drastic move would take some thought. And should he move up into the hills, he would likely never see Faramir again – which despite his surly demeanor towards him – caused sharp pain in his heart.

 

"Duties can be changed. I should hate for you to be burdened by going up and down those treacherous trails day after day. You would be well protected here."

 

Frodo murmured, "I promise that I shall consider it," and he leaned into Menrahil's hands.

 

Menrahil paused again. "Please do. Now move over here so it's easier for me to reach the stiffest parts." He beckoned Frodo to move between his legs on the sofa. Frodo obeyed him and leaned back into Menrahil's chest, feeling relaxed and utterly cared for, but as he scooted back against Menrahil, his bottom pressed against something unyielding –

 

Oh.

 

Frodo's cheeks flamed. "Sir?" He twisted around, heart pounding. Menrahil's eyes were closed, and he breathed in pleasurable gasps. Frodo gagged with revulsion, covering his mouth. His stomach heaved with nausea. He thought the man was kind and thoughtful, when all he had wanted--

 

"Menrahil!"

 

Menrahil startled and opened his eyes.

 

"Please stop," Frodo commanded, scooting away from the bulge in his leggings. "Let go of me."

 

"Hush," Menrahil said in a hoarse voice, and now his hands pushed the oversized shirt up to his hips and stroked him there. "Just sit still." His voice shook.

 

"Let me go!" Frodo jumped to his feet and out of Menrahil's grip, breathing heavily, his legs shaking. This man could easily overpower him and do anything he pleased, so best he appeal to any decency that might exist within him. He softened the frightened fury in his eyes, clutching his arms over his chest, shivering. "Please…Menrahil…I am not ready for…that."

 

Menrahil looked at him, his voice hoarse with need. "Come now, Frodo. Your Rangers do not treat you well. You have said so yourself. But I will. I will love you, care for you, protect you. I was never a Ranger but I know how to fight as one. And I would never have allowed you to go up those treacherous paths alone. I will keep you safe and warm."

 

Frodo took a step backwards, toward the hearth, glancing at his still drying clothes. He had to flee this lodge. He did not think Menrahil meant him harm, but he was unbalanced and that was just as dangerous for Frodo. He could not go out in the storm again in naught but this oversized shirt. He had to change back into his clothes, but he could not let Menrahil see him do it.

 

"All right." Frodo closed his eyes and smiled a little. "You are right." He cast his gaze to the ground as if ashamed. "You took me by surprise is all. I shall stay with you. But first you must do me a favor."

 

Menrahil nodded. "Anything. And do you mean it? You shall stay here…with me?"

 

Frodo nodded. "Yes. Yes, I will." He forced a laugh. "It will teach those awful Rangers back home a lesson, won't it? But here's what I need you to do. When I delivered the message today to Elm Ernberry's lodge, I…I forgot to give him something else." He dug in his small backpack, nervous sweat pouring down his back, until he found a quill. "I was meant to give him this as well. If you could deliver it to him tonight, then my mind would be at ease. Otherwise, I shall have to go out again in the rain."

 

"For you I shall do this." Menrahil knelt on the floor in front of Frodo. "Oh, my Frodo." He kissed him, and Frodo shuddered, trying not to gag. But he forced himself to return the kiss. "My Frodo. And now you _are_ my Frodo. I can't believe my fortune." Menrahil ran his tongue down Frodo's neck and planted a sloppy kiss right where his life pulse fluttered alarmingly. "My sweet halfling," he said hoarsely. "Please do not be frightened. I will never hurt you."

 

"Just return as quickly as you can," Frodo said, pulling out of his embrace. "I must have more of your…touch." He hoped he sounded convincing.

 

Menrahil clearly wanted to believe it that he kissed Frodo again before rising to his feet, his eyes bright with anticipation. "I shall return…quickly."

 

Frodo wobbled on his feet. He felt unnaturally dizzy, barely able to hold his balance. As soon as Menrahil left, he staggered back to the sofa, his stomach rolling with coming sick.

 

_All right, no time for that. Now you must move._

 

Frodo struggled against the growing nausea to climb out of Menrahil's oversized shirt and return into his wet cold clothes. They had not had dried long enough and so they felt cold and clammy on him.

 

He threw on his wet cloak and set off into the rain.

 

_I'm sorry, dear Prim. I shall have to leave you for now, but I will come back for you. With Strider._

 

Frodo set off by foot, staggering with dizziness and nausea. The illness had clutched him so fast. It could not just be from the wine. Menrahil had likely put something in the wine, perhaps something to make him more pliable, cooperative. He fell to his knees and threw up in the soupy mud, tasting bile mixed with wine and cheese. He forced himself up and continued to struggle along, peering anxiously behind him every few steps. If Menrahil decided to come after him, he could easily overtake him, especially in his ill state.

 

It was late, late at night now. The rain had died to a steady rain and the wind no longer blew, but the air was colder, and the chill sank deep through his damp clothing and into his skin.

 

At long last he reached the point in the trail where he and Prim had been forced to turn around before. Poor Prim, he thought in agony. He only hoped that Menrahil would not harm her. He fervently hoped that in fact Menrahil would forget all about her or assume that Frodo had taken her with him.

 

Frodo collapsed to his knees. The world spun around him, and he threw up again. He was dreadfully sick and he was sure now that Menrahil had indeed put something in his food or drink. He could not risk trying to step along the narrow piece of trail. He did not trust his sense of balance at the moment. He sat against the cliff face and put his head between his knees in defeat.

 

He might have been there ten minutes or an hour or possibly more. He did not know if he had fallen into a doze or not. But he had heard something. He jerked his head up, heart thudding in terror.

 

A hoarse voice called, "Frodo!"

 

Frodo jumped to his feet in alarm. A tall figure on the other side of the broken trail, hooded and bundled in his cloak, his hand on the hilt of his sword waved to him.

 

Frodo's heart jumped. He recognized the voice, and never had he been so overjoyed to hear any voice.

 

"Halbarad?" he called back weakly.

 

"Are you hurt?" Halbarad's voice was full of concern, and he stepped toward Frodo.

 

"Halbarad!" Frodo cried out in alarm. "Be careful! The trail is gone."

 

"Fear not. I see it. Hold on. I'm coming to you."

 

In moments, Halbarad stood before him, and Frodo threw his arms around him in a fierce embrace, pressing his head into his chest and weeping with exhaustion and relief.

 

Halbarad pulled away from Frodo's grip and kneeled so that they faced one another eye to eye. "Where is your pony?"

 

Frodo wiped his face with his wet sleeve. "It's a long story, but she is back up there…she is safe…for now." He swayed on his feet and Halbarad steadied him with a strong hand on his shoulder. He felt bone-numbingly weary at the idea of Halbarad possibly making them both turn around to go back for the pony.

 

Halbarad studied Frodo's face, his face grim and shadowed. Frodo realized that he shook uncontrollably again. "I must get you home first. You're ill and you've been out in the elements for far too long. I shall carry you."

 

Frodo did not protest as the Ranger lifted him.

 

"Put your hands around my neck and your legs around my waist," Halbarad commanded. "I need my hands to remain free, especially as we navigate this broken trail."

 

Frodo pressed his head on Halbarad's shoulder and closed his eyes. His stomach rolled again, and he groaned, fearing that he might be ill all over Halbarad. Halbarad got them safely over the narrow strip of trail, and then he began to walk a steady pace. He did his best to wrap Frodo in his cloak, to shield him from rain and wind. Frodo fell asleep in his arms. He barely felt it and later he remembered it as imagination, but he felt a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

 

***

 

Faramir roamed the village, his boots sinking in mud. A foul, foul night – the worst he had seen since coming to the Citadel. His muscles ached and his heart was heavy with worry. He had been awake since early that morning and had been on duty all day. Now it was late evening, a time when he long should have been at rest, and he had done nothing but walk back and forth through the muddy streets of the village asking everyone he came upon whether they had seen Frodo. He did not truly believe that Frodo had been sent up into the hills – even Fomhal must have some sense, although that was his deepest fear. He found it more likely that Frodo had taken shelter or stayed to have supper with a friend. Whatever the case, Faramir knew he would be unable to sleep until he knew.

 

When the other villagers yielded no information, Faramir returned home, intending only to warm his fingers and feet in front of the fire for a few moments so that he could gather his strength to follow Halbarad up the trail that went up into the hills.

 

But next Faramir knew, the front door creaked open. Faramir leaped to his feet, blinking in confusion, knocking over the stool on which his feet had rested. He had slept against his will and now he guessed the hour to be early, not far from sunrise.

 

"Halbarad? Frodo?"

 

Halbarad strode into the sitting room, face grim, carrying Frodo in his arms. Faramir's heart turned cold. He was so still, pale, mud-splotched.

 

"He's ill," Halbarad said. "Please light a fire in the bedroom."

 

Faramir stared at Frodo, pale and cold, filthy, deeply asleep…or unconscious. "Did he fall? What happened? Where did you find him?"

 

"I found him trapped far up the hill at a point where the trail had collapsed in the rain. But I gather there is far more to this story. He was sick a few times on the way down and I caught the aroma of wine on his breath. There are some very unsavory men up that hill and I sense something foul has happened."

 

"I will speak with Fomhal myself," Faramir said, lips thin with fury. "He should never have sent him up there. Never." He followed Halbarad to the bedroom, his heart burning. He started a fire. Strider stirred in his sleep but did not awaken.

 

"We need to remove his clothing," Halbarad whispered. "He's been in wet clothes out in the elements for a long time. Do you know where he stores his nightshirt?"

 

"Under his pillow," Faramir said. Of course he knew. He had sometimes feigned sleep on mornings when Frodo awakened earlier than him and just watched him with the awe that a beautiful creature inspired as he folded his nightshirt and dressed. Sure enough, he found the nightshirt under the pillow, folded neatly.

 

The two men undressed Frodo. Thankfully they saw no bruising or harm done to him, save a strange pinkish mark on his neck. Frodo groaned but he did not awaken. Soon he was in his warm cotton nightshirt, and Faramir pulled his blanket up to his chin. He put his hand over Frodo's warm brow. The sun would not rise this day, as the rain still pattered on the roof, but the sky had begun to lighten into dismal gray.

 

"Shall we send for a healer?" Faramir whispered.

 

"We shall see what Strider says when he awakens," Halbarad said. "I think he is in no danger." Something sad stirred in Halbarad's green eyes, and Faramir thought he perceived a faint light that spoke of a deep, buried grief from long ago.

 

Faramir sat still, watching Frodo, so dear to his heart that it hurt. He knew that by the time Frodo awakened, he would be gone, on duty, and that Frodo would remember only one terrible storm.

 

Faramir would keep the other in his own heart a secret.

 

When Frodo woke next, he lay alone in his cot, tucked in several wool blankets. The men must have given him theirs and done without themselves. Frodo also noticed that he no longer wore his soaked and filthy clothes. Instead his cotton nightshirt clung to his sweaty skin. He had no recollection of changing clothes and so he understood that one of the Rangers must have done that for him.

Not Faramir, surely not him, Frodo thought, although the idea that he might have helped made him shiver with delight.

His throat filled with gratitude toward his normally exasperating cottage mates, and he managed a weak smile, although his lips were parched. His throat felt scratchy when he swallowed, and whenever he moved, his head ached. The Rangers, who all too often barely seemed aware of Frodo, had gone far out of their way to find him, take him home, and make certain that he slept in comfort. Especially Halbarad.

Something unpleasant nagged at his memory and turned his stomach. Something was amiss, something—

His stomach filled with ice.

Menrahil. He closed his eyes. It was dream-like now, his stay at that cottage when he shivered before the fire. He had been so exhausted and weary, and Menrahil had seemed so kind. And poor Prim! He did not imagine that Menrahil would harm her, especially if he thought that Frodo might come back for her, but it was possible that he had forgotten. She would certainly need to be fed and watered by now. Frodo despaired of ever getting the pony home again. He had no strength, the trails were certainly still damaged, and he could not again face Menrahil. He would need to once again beg aid from the Rangers.

Outside, a heavy gloom of fog and drizzle settled over the land. With no sun, he could not guess the time.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and Strider peered in. He smiled with relief when he saw that Frodo was awake. "How do you feel? Your eyes look much brighter."

"My head hurts and I'm rather sore, but otherwise, it is not too bad. What is the time?"

Strider sat on the stool beside Frodo's bed. "Past noon." He touched Frodo's brow. "Much better."

Frodo grasped Strider's arm. "My pony is trapped up in the hills. I couldn't take her with me." He closed his eyes, remembering Menrahil's foul lips on his. He shuddered. What in the world had he thought when he returned to his cottage and found Frodo gone? "I only hope she is all right."

Strider squeezed Frodo's hand. "You should never have been sent up in the hills in such weather. Where is Prim?"

Frodo sighed with dismay. "There is a man named Menrahil in the first cottage once you reach the village." He paused when he saw Strider flinch and his eyes grow keen with interest. "She is tied in his stable."

"What—" Strider began, but the door opened, and Halbarad came in.

"I heard voices and thought Frodo must have awakened. How are you?"

Frodo offered him a wide smile. "Thanks to you, I am all right. And in one piece."

"My heart is glad that I found you when I did."

Strider turned to Halbarad. "Will you accompany me to fetch Frodo's pony?"

Halbarad nodded, and relief seeped down Frodo's limbs. How kind they were! Frodo loathed asking such an enormous favor, but he simply could not imagine gathering the strength to take that journey again. And he had not even needed to ask. "You would do this for me? Whatever can I do in return?"

Strider set his hand on Frodo's brow. "It is not a hardship for Halbarad and I, and it will ease your heart. In return I ask only that you get well as soon as possible."

"Thank you," Frodo said, taking Strider's hand and kissing it. "But there is more you should know."

"I had thought so," Halbarad said, gripping the hilt of his sword.

"Where is Faramir?" Frodo asked, looking over Strider's shoulder to the door.

"He has duty," Halbarad said.

Frodo nodded, closing his eyes. "That is well. I'd rather he…I'd rather that not too many heard this story." In a halting voice, he described in great detail what had happened when he arrived at Menrahil's lodge begging for shelter.

Strider shook his head. "I know of this man," he said. "He was placed up in the hills for a good reason. He is mostly harmless but he is prone to strange yearnings and his mind is unbalanced."

"That I can see," Frodo said. "I never wish to see him again, but I do not think he intended to harm me." He squeezed Strider's hand. "You'll not hurt him, will you? He is loathsome, but I think he is only lonely and not quite…right. Please do not hurt him, if you can avoid it."

Strider and Halbarad glanced at each other. "We will only fetch Prim."

Frodo slipped into sleep before the men left, and he knew no more until dusky fog had fallen upon the land.

 

Faramir arrived home first, and he entered the room, hovering in the doorway as if not certain whether he was welcome.

"Hello," Frodo said. "Please…come in. I am not asleep."

Faramir nodded and entered. "That is well. I did not wish to disturb your sleep. Are you well?"

"Much better, thank you." Frodo glanced out the window. "I only hope that the others return soon. They've gone to fetch Prim. Only when they're all back safe and sound will I truly breathe again."

Faramir pulled off his muddy boots one at a time. "You must learn to stand up to Fomhal. Any fool knows not to ride up into the hills when the rain comes down that hard." He removed his gauntlets and flung them to the side of his makeshift bed.

Frodo flushed. He was not certain whether Faramir was referring to him or to Fomhal as the fool.

When Frodo did not answer, Faramir turned to him. "Did you not consider that? Fomhal had no right to send you up there. And given that he did, it irks me that you've not the courage to tell him no."

"Stand up to Fomhal?" Frodo said, rising up on his elbows, his heart beating with indignation. Now Faramir was taking off his tunic and shirt, and Frodo could not help but notice the broadness of his shoulders, how visible were his muscles as he reached for a clean shirt. "Do you not recall that Arkin recently found out that standing up to Fomhal was not a wise choice? Fomhal has a dreadful temper."

Faramir snorted in scorn as he threw on his clean shirt, letting it hang loose over his leggings. "He'll not strike someone so much smaller. It would make him look the fool. And even if he did, is it likely to kill you? No, I warrant not. But riding into those hills could have. And not only you, but Halbarad as well. And now Strider."

"I suppose I'm a fool then," Frodo said through gritted teeth, annoyed that he had spoken to him. Faramir so often made Frodo seem the selfish fool. He should have feigned sleep.

"Do you need anything from the kitchen? Tea?" Faramir asked brusquely.

"No, thank you," Frodo said, but his stomach chose that very moment to emit a loud growl.

Faramir hid a smile. "Are you certain? I could make you a sandwich or perhaps some eggs."

Frodo laughed in resignation. "All right then. Perhaps a sandwich. If it's not too much trouble."

Faramir nodded and left, leaving Frodo feeling exasperated and confused. He had not long to contemplate that before Halbarad and Strider returned. Frodo leaped out of bed and greeted them in the front hall. "Did you find her?"

"Yes, yes," Strider said with a grin as he hung up his cloak and removed the weapons from around his waist. "She was hungry and thirsty, but we brought her back. Some parts of the trail were so crumpled that it was alarming at times, but she is here and well."

"Oh, thank you!" Frodo embraced him, despite the Ranger's clothing being wet from the drizzle and fog. Strider knelt and returned the embrace. "And you didn't hurt Menrahil, did you?" he whispered in Strider's ear.

"We had a most peculiar conversation with him." Strider stood again, and Frodo embraced Halbarad, too.

"Come," Halbarad said, leading him toward the sitting room. "Let us go where it is warm."

"Now what did Menrahil say?" Frodo asked after they were settled in the sitting room before the fire. He could hear Faramir preparing the food in the kitchen.

Strider grinned. "He said he was glad you had not come for the pony yourself because he was very uncomfortable by your presence. He claimed you undressed before him and then wanted to be stroked and touched. He said you threw yourself at him, begging him to kiss you. He also said that you told him that the Rangers you lived with were abhorrent and rude and that you wanted to move in with him."

"That part was probably true," Faramir said, handing Frodo his sandwich with a teasing glint in his eyes. "I see there was more to this journey of yours last night."

"Thank you," Frodo said, flushing. "Go on, Strider."

"He then said that he felt pity for us for having to endure you and that perhaps we should beat some sense into you." Strider laughed. "I told him that if I did that, I would fear for my life because hobbits have amazingly good aim with rocks."

"Ah, well," Frodo said, shaking his head in amazement. "At least Prim is safe, and at least the two of you made it home and nobody got hurt. What an adventure that was!"

They continued to sit before the fire in contentment. Frodo ate his sandwich, which was surprisingly flavorful considering who had made it. At last his belly felt full, the glow of the fire warmed his cheeks, and for the moment he did not feel lonely or bewildered by the aloofness of the Rangers with whom he lived.

Indeed, I should consider them dear friends now.

Rain began to fall once again, pattering against the windows.

Let it rain now, Frodo thought happily, and curled up on the sofa, boldly resting his head in Strider's lap.

END


End file.
